


To Keep You Safe

by Dragonslaeyr



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Soulmates, This is lowkey a Thorin sick!fic, Thorin just goes from one injury to another, Unintentionally
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-07 21:17:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20458055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonslaeyr/pseuds/Dragonslaeyr
Summary: It is widely known (among Hobbits, of course) that around the age of 33, hobbits have a Calling, plant their heartplants, find their One, and that's that.Except, as with so many things, then Bilbo Baggins came along.





	To Keep You Safe

* * *

Bilbo Baggins was an excellent gardener. Not one to accept undue praise even at the worst of times, Bilbo knew that he could agree with such an assessment wholeheartedly and still keep his ego intact. It was simply the truth that he had taken to gardening far earlier than his fauntling peers and that he was still the only hobbit to have successfully grown an oak tree large enough to rival even the Party Tree in the centre of town.

And yet, and yet. Even with such successes under his belt, there was truly only one thing that mattered to the other hobbits, a commentary so frequently made both about Bilbo and to him that it had almost become a chant. He had, several times, considered making a banner with the words to hang on the door to Bag End. 

"What a marvelous garden, that Bilbo has," his neighbours would tut as they walked by. "'Tis a shame he still hasn't grown his heartplant, though."

And so on, and so forth.

❦

It was Dori who noticed first. Dori, the warrior-cum-tailor who Bilbo had taken a shining to when they had discovered their mutual fondness for tea, and who Bilbo had gravitated towards after noting this friendly connection, as well as the dual enormous blades that he kept strapped to his back at all hours.

Perhaps he was cynical, or even jaded. Bilbo preferred to think of himself as assuredly well-protected.

"Oi, Bilbo," Dori had called to him, and Bilbo had looked up from his spot under a drooping tree as he unsuccessfully tried to wring the rainwater from his curls. They were all soaked to the bone, but Dori was looking particularly worse for the wear, seeing as he had traded all of his good, sturdy clothes to his brothers. Ori had decked out his oldest brother in an assortment of knitted clothing in thanks but now, in the rain, he only looked bedraggled and angry. "How come you're so dry?"

The rest of the Company had settled under their own trees, with Thorin having called the day to a close the moment that he had spotted a patch of dry land. Everyone's mood had been dark for hours by that point, and they were all much more muted as Dori addressed Bilbo. 

Bilbo, who was now looking down at himself as he settled in a patch of dirt that was slowly beginning to turn to mud, much to his chagrin. Bilbo, who frowned at Dori and obstinately pointed to the mess of curls that now hung in limp waves over his eyes. Dori rolled his eyes as he dropped down beside Bilbo. "Not your hair, I mean this!"

He plucked pointedly at Bilbo's waistcoat which indeed, was perfectly dry. In fact, his entire outfit was seemingly untouched by the rain and elements, and even his rucksack was proving to hold its own as trickles of rainwater dribbled down it, rolling off as if it had been thoroughly oiled that very day.

"Oh," Bilbo said, and frowned at Dori. "It's my heart."

"Your what?" Dori asked, and Bilbo's frown only grew deeper.

"My heart," he waved his hand vaguely towards his chest, and Dori blinked twice.

"Your heart."

"Yes," Bilbo's voice had taken on a pointedly slow quality as he cleared his throat. "It protects me. You know, like hearts do."

"Here now, don't your ribs protect your heart?" Bofur cut in. He had resigned himself to the weather, letting the water pool in the brim of his hat as he attempted to whittle, and tipping his head to the side every few minutes to let the thin stream of water drain away from his bedroll. 

"Your ribs?" Bilbo pulled a face, his hand absently coming up to touch at the offending area. "That's disgusting, what do your ribs have to do with your heart?"

There was a long, drawn out silence then as hobbit and dwarf stared at the other, trying desperately to understand exactly where this conversation had derailed before Dori simply threw up his hands with a great huff. "Nevermind!"

And talk of hearts did not come up again that night.

❦

"Master Boggins," Kíli, apparently bored with whatever it was that he had been doing—to Bilbo it had looked suspiciously like banging rocks together—looked up at Bilbo, who was stretched out like a cat, stunning himself on his own rock. They had ended that day's travel early, needing to conserve the ponies' energy for the following day and the rough, rocky trek up the hill path they were ascending. 

"Aye," Bilbo replied absently, running a hand through his curls and, not for the first time, finding himself annoyed by the length that he had allowed it to grow to. 

"Why are your clothes so clean?" That made Bilbo pay attention, and he shifted so that he was sitting up, blinking the sunspots from his eyes as he peered back at Kíli with a sharp frown. Behind him, Fíli had his back too his brother, apparently sharpening his knives, while the rest of the Company had scattered to their own various rocks among the hillside. 

"What do you mean why?" Bilbo asked slowly, looking down at his clothes and tugging at them lightly in an effort to search for any strange patches or tears. But no, they were hardy and whole, and Bilbo breathed a sigh of relief.

Fíli fixed him with a strange stare, spinning in place and jostling his brother to move over so they could both sit and face Bilbo on the same rock. Fíli stuck out one leg, tapping at his calf lightly, where there was a new patch of fabric sewn hastily at an odd angle. "The rest of us have been darning and sewing every stitch of clothing on our backs for the past few weeks, but your travelling clothes look the same as when you first joined us."

Bilbo nodded, pausing to let Fíli go on before realising that he had made his point. "Well, my heart keeps them from tearing, obviously."

There was another one of those strange pauses as Fíli and Kíli both blinked at him, and Bilbo almost stood and walked away, so annoyed was he at having to explain the simplest of facts to no less than three dwarrows. Fíli was the one who broke the silence, slapping his hand to his knee. "Right! Bilbo, promise me you'll go along with what I say for the next few minutes, no matter how much of a fool I may seem to you."

Bilbo already thought that Fíli was a bit weak-headed if he didn't understand the basic functions of a heart, but he nodded in acquiescence. Fíli straightened in place and paused for a moment before clearing his throat. "Where, exactly, is your heart?"

Immediately, Bilbo's hand went to his waistcoat buttons, his grip tightening, vice-like over them. He glanced around the camp and realised, awkwardly, that several Company members were staring at him. He looked back at Fíli, wondering where, exactly, this conversation was leading.

"And what... What does it look like?"

"You've seen them," Bilbo frowned. "My buttons, obviously."

Fíli leaned in, still a good foot away from Bilbo but he looked closely at Bilbo's waistcoat buttons, humming thoughtfully before straightening up again. 

"Dwarrow hearts," he began, tightening his hand into a fist and holding it out in front of him. "Are roughly this size, and they lie within our chest, beating like a drum to give us life." Dutifully, Fíli beat his fist against his chest in a slow rhythm, matching the pace of his heartbeat.

"But that's—That's disgusting!" Bilbo cried, and Fíli laughed, dropping his hand. "That's no better than birds or beasts! And their hearts aren't even edible!"

"Careful," Fíli's voice had taken on a warning tone, but Bilbo ignored it, wrinkling his nose at the idea of a lump of muscle pulsing away in his chest. No, he would much rather do without, thank you very much. "But it is much the same for Men and Elves."

"Well, I'm glad I'm neither," Bilbo retorted flatly, before bunching his own hand into a fist and shuddering, letting lie back, flat against the stone.

"So what is a hobbit heart, then?" Kíli perked up, and Bilbo was slowly beginning to understand the strange, dwarvish fascination with his clothes.

"Well," Bilbo began, and he suddenly found that he was shy. "I admit that I am a bit of an oddity among hobbits. If you asked any old hobbit, you'd find that they call these," he pressed a hand to his left breast, over his buttons. "Their heartplant. Most hobbits, you see, plant gardens and once they have their Calling, they find the plant that calls them to their One and nurture it. If they've done everything right and not mucked things up with the other hobbit, their plant will grow and prosper and protect their garden."

"But..." Kíli looked like he was desperately trying not to interrupt the story, yet unable to stop himself. "You don't have a plant."

Bilbo shook his head roughly. "No. I was always a gardener, but I never felt the Calling in the way that the other hobbits did." He paused then, suddenly aware of all the eyes on him and the harsh sunlight that had not yet waned, and found himself shying away from an explanation. "These are my heart. For now, they protect me and perhaps one day, they will protect someone else."

There was a lull in the conversation then, and Bilbo found that he had to leave, excusing himself quickly from the moment and turning away from the boys. He was surprised to see Thorin sitting only a few stones away, a pipe gripped tightly between his teeth as he carefully oiled his shield, watching Bilbo. Neither said anything, but as Bilbo stalked past him, he could feel the intensity of Thorin's gaze at his back, following him deep past the rocky treeline and into the gloom.

❦

Bilbo Baggins had never known heartbreak until he felt four brass buttons wrenched from his waistcoat, clattering to the ground while he sprinted, each footstep taking him away from his heart, taking him away from The Shire, taking him further, further, further into the darkness. It was only when he burst out into the open, dragging in great lungfuls of mountain air and feeling once more the heat of the sun at his back that he allowed himself to collapse into the dirt and sob until he could feel no more.

❦

Bilbo heard the sound of footsteps rushing past, and he found himself running before he could fully process where he was going or what was pursuing him. It was only when he cast his eyes about the sparse grove of trees that dotted the hillside that he realised the creatures around him were not the goblins that he had feared but dwarrows, _his_ dwarrows. Bilbo slowed to a stop, pressing himself against a tree and flapping a hand towards Bifur, who only sprinted past with a grunt. He frowned, stepping forward as he caught sight of Bombur at the back of the group, waving his arms wildly as he struggled to catch his breath. Yet Bombur paid his waving arms no mind, and Bilbo circled the tree, keeping a light hold of it as he looked down the slight incline towards the gathered dwarrows. None of them paid him any mind, and Bilbo took a step closer, his hand still resting lightly on the tree as he watched them explode into conversation. 

"Where's Bilbo?" Bofur, trusted kindly Bofur, whirled in place, his eyes wild and frantic as he searched. Bilbo had caught his breath by then but he stayed silent, only taking a single step closer, releasing his grip from the tree and, when he was still not discovered, continuing his slow descent towards the gathered group. 

"Forget the hobbit!" Thorin growled as he spun in place, his eyes scanning the hillside wildly and Bilbo stilled, staring back at Thorin even as he knew that the dwarf king could not see him. He flexed his hand slowly, feeling the cold metal of the ring almost ache on his hand and for a brief moment, Bilbo imagined removing it and giving it to Thorin. Would he be happy? Would he take it as the great gift that Bilbo knew it to be? Would his anger soften into something more malleable, something that Bilbo could enfold in his two hands and keep safe and warm in his waistcoat pocket?

"He's a member of this Company just like you or me!" Bofur cried, and Thorin turned on Bofur then, his eyes flint. 

"He left us, Bofur," Thorin snarled. "He's talked of nothing but soft clothes and a warm hearth since joining us. Likely he used his _burgling_ ways and found an escape route back to his home."

Bofur looked around desperately, but Bilbo stayed where he was, silently seething as he watched Thorin shift in place, looking up at Gandalf, who had the good graces to still look perturbed by the course of events. "Have you another hobbit stowed away in those robes of yours, _Tharkûn_? Or perhaps you will force us to return to the Shire?"

"Have faith that our hobbit will return, Thorin," Gandalf chastised, but Thorin only looked annoyed.

"Why would he?" He replied, and Bilbo snapped.

"Why indeed," Bilbo ground out, tearing the ring from his finger as he flickered back into the light. The grasping tendrils of smoke dissipated and were replaced by Thorin, who was standing mere inches from him, his face frozen in dumbfounded awe at Bilbo's sudden appearance. Bilbo stuffed the ring into his pocket where it clacked sharply against his last remaining button, and Bilbo grit his teeth at the sound, staring the dwarf king down. "I would never abandon my friends, Thorin Oakenshield."

"I—" Thorin swallowed with an audible click of his throat, and Bilbo caught the faintest edge of something that could have been called regret in his eyes before a shrill howl pierced the air. The Company didn't wait to identify the source, only hauling what little they had left with them down the mountainside. Before him, Bilbo watched Thorin hesitate only for a moment, only long enough to meet Bilbo's eyes and nod jerkily before stepping past Bilbo and further up the hill, brandishing his sword. "Go!"

And Bilbo did, turning and sprinting down the hill after his friends, the sickly feeling in his stomach only growing with each passing step, the gentle chimes that emanated from his pocket reminding him that he only had _one more, one more, one more_.

❦

Bilbo could hear Thorin before he saw him, settled as he was against the westernmost wall of Beorn's hut and smoking the last of his pipeweed. It wasn't as bitter as the dwarrows' was, but it was a great deal stronger and Bilbo, who had taken to rationing his stores, found that after Yavanna only _knew_ how long they had been travelling that a single puff of Old Toby was enough to send him into a coughing fit. That was how Thorin found him eventually, grunting as he tried not to clutch at his ribs and settling against the bench beside Bilbo with a slow exhale. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," Bilbo wheezed, and he sighed, flapping his hand to disperse the smoke that had collected in a haze around his face. "How are you? How are your ribs?"

"Fine," Thorin replied, and for a moment they were both pleasantly fine, and the conversation hovered expectantly over both their heads as Bilbo puffed again at his pipe and Thorin adjusted his furs. 

"It's so peaceful," Bilbo broke the silence wistfully, speaking more to himself than Thorin. "It reminds me of home."

"Does it?" Thorin sounded skeptical as his eyes trailed an enormous bee that buzzed past them lazily, bobbing in the air as if drunk.

"Well," Bilbo sniffed, edging marginally closer to Thorin as the bee buzzed towards him, and breathing out a sigh of relief as it floated away, around the bend. "The flowers do. I don't think I shall ever tire of growing things." 

"No? I had thought, ah... that you did not do that. Grow things, I mean," Thorin looked pained as he spoke, from more than the deep gashes that marred his chest, and Bilbo almost teased him but decided to take mercy at the last moment. 

"I've been a gardener for longer than any other hobbit my age," Bilbo sighed, leaning back against the wood slats of the house and closing his eyes. The buzz of bees and the floral pollen were almost homey enough for Bilbo to remember the sights of The Shire, and he half-conjured up the image of the Party Tree, the Great Smials, even Bag End—yet his memories were marred by the smell of iron and petrichor that came from his right and he gave up on his idle daydreams. "Every hobbit is, to some degree. I took to it younger than most, though. I planted an acorn at age seven that's still growing today."

"The oak outside your house?"

"Mmm," Bilbo hummed, remembering his youth and the days spent tending to the tree, pouring a love into it that had been dangerously close to a Calling. Yet it wasn't meant to be, and he opened his eyes rather than remember the bitter feeling of the hot forge against his skin, the wrenching pain of watching his buttons clatter to the ground of that godforsaken cave. 

"I confess, I did not know the difference between an oak and a pine until after I found this," Thorin pulled his ever-present shield from his side, laying it flat in his lap and running practiced fingers over its grooves and crevices. "I hardly remember that day at all, but I am told that it is, in fact, an oak."

"If you didn't know what it was, then who named you Oakenshield?" Bilbo asked, and Thorin chuckled lowly.

"Perhaps I should rephrase that. I did not know the tree itself, but in wielding the shield, I came to know it." Thorin ran a careful thumb over one particular knot in the shield, studying it with the carefully trained eye of a warrior. "I believe Yavanna herself gave me its name."

Bilbo tried desperately to give the moment the seriousness that it was due, but he found that he could only stifle his laughter so much. Thorin twisted to face him, wincing as he did so and Bilbo couldn't help but laugh harder, pressing a feather-light touch to Thorin's ribs. "Peace, Thorin. Only, it is a bit ridiculous that you didn't know what an oak was."

"We are dwarrows of the lost Kingdom of Erebor," Thorin grumbled, and if Bilbo had to choose a descriptor for his tone, it would have been petulant. "We do not need to differentiate between trees."

"And what a fine tree it must have been," Bilbo smiled, patting the shield lightly. Or rather, he tried to pat it, but the moment that his hand touched the rough hewn wood, Bilbo felt a jolt shake him to his bones. Except jolt was the wrong word, no, it was not a sharp shock of energy nor a streak of pain, but rather a suffusing warmth that ebbed through his hand and traced his veins like a banking bonfire. Bilbo was reminded of the forges he had been Called to so long ago, like a song that thrummed in his veins and sang him home and without intending to, he watched his hand skate across the surface of the shield, memorizing every notch and nick that dappled its surface. He had no knowledge of war, his expertise with a weapon limited to the three swings he had taken at wargs not two days before, but when he touched the shield, Bilbo suddenly saw every blade that had carved its mark into the shield, every dent and chip that made it what it was today. He looked up at Thorin sharply, searching his face for some kind of sign, some form of acknowledgement that Bilbo had changed before his very eyes, but Thorin only blinked back at him quizzically. "It is a good shield."

"Aye," Thorin agreed easily, hefting it and frowning as Bilbo inadvertently reached out to follow its movement, hastily drawing his hand back as he realised what he was doing. 

"I—" Bilbo found that he was briefly speechless, unable to articulate the well of emotion that was beginning to bubble up in his chest. "I hope it continues to protect you."

"As do I," Thorin agreed slowly, and Bilbo settled back against the wall roughly, taking another slow puff of Old Toby before bursting into another coughing fit, and Thorin's laugh rose into the afternoon air, easy and light with the smoke.

❦

"So Bilbo," it was Glóin this time who was looking at him from across Beorn's too-wide table, that same familiar look wrinkling his brow. "Your heart."

"Is this a good time to point out that talk of hearts is considered quite improper in esteemed company?" Bilbo asked, rubbing heavily at his forehead and confounding, not for the first time, the stubbornness of dwarrows. "It seems to me to be a good time."

"You talked earlier about hearts easily enough," Kíli piped up, but Bilbo's sharp glare in his direction quickly silenced his cheer.

"What do you want to know?" Bilbo asked, his annoyance tempered in no small part at catching sight of Thorin returning to Beorn's hall. The dwarf still hadn't fully recovered, though his usual regal bearing was marred only somewhat by his slow limp. He slumped onto the bench at Bilbo's side, and Bilbo found that he was much more willing to discuss hearts when Thorin was here.

"Well," Glóin seemed surprised that Bilbo had acquiesced, looking around the table at the rest of the Company before forging forward. "You said hobbits grow plants?"

"Aye, most do." After so many years, Bilbo found that he could think of heartplants only with fondness, rather than the bitterness that he remembered when he had been young, staring down at the five rapidly cooling buttons that he had made, and which had Called to him so readily.

"Every hobbit is said to have a plant of some kind which ties them to the earth. Yavanna blessed us with our land, and we protect it with our hearts.

"Heartplants are no ordinary plants. They are grown by their hobbit when they feel the Calling, and they blossom as their relationship blossoms. If your heartplant is well cared for, then you will have a long and happy life," Bilbo finished with a brisk nod. Unbidden, a memory of his parents came to him, and Bilbo smiled. "My own parents' courtship was quite strange. My mother was a terrible gardener and everyone knew it, so when my father had his Calling and went 'round to her house, the whole Shire thought that nothing would ever come from it. They thought she'd end up a spinster her whole life and poor Bungo Baggins had simply drawn the short stick."

"Then what happened?" Bilbo glanced over at Ori's question, amused to see the scribe hastily writing out the details of Bilbo's tale and he grinned, allowing himself to settle into the familiar role of storyteller.

"Well, my father dragged my mother back to his garden up on the hill and presented her with his bouquet of sunflowers, promising that he'd build them a smial to rival even the Great Smials where my mother had grown up. Except that hill had never had any kind of growing things on it, and truly it was a bit of an embarassment for the Baggins clan at the time because it was little more than a pretty pile of dirt." Bilbo laughed at the dwarrows' confused expressions as they recalled Bilbo's home among the rolling green hills. "And so my mother, who had never successfully grown a plant in all her life, set about covering that hill with sweetgrass to help nurture future plants. She got halfway through growing out the grass before she sat back and realised that perhaps her Calling stopped at growing grass!"

The dwarrows chuckled at Bilbo's story, and he felt warmed by his telling, allowing himself a brief glance towards Thorin, who was eating his lunch slowly and methodically, not looking up from his bowl. Bilbo turned back to the other dwarrows, trying hard not to feel the warmth that ran down his spine when he remembered the feeling of oakwood on his fingers. 

"But you don't have a heartplant." Fíli had leaned in, propping his chin up in his hands and watching Bilbo intently. Bilbo shook his head roughly.

"No, my Calling was much different." He rolled his shoulders awkwardly and unconsciously palmed the singular button that sat heavy in his waistcoat pocket. "It's not unheard of to have a heart that's not a plant, but it's... considered a sign of bad blood, usually." 

"Bad blood?" 

"Mmm," Bilbo hummed. "There are stories of a Took girl who ran off with a faerie many years ago. They say her heart was poured into a stone no bigger than your pinky." He held up his hand to show the dwarrows and they watched, entranced.

"Is that heard of, then? Being bonded to another race?" Ori had gone back to his writing, only looking up to ask questions before diving back into the pages of his journal.

"It's not... _unheard _of," Bilbo frowned, ladling more stew into his bowl. "But not exactly taken lightly. Flower languages are hard enough to interpret on their own. Some hobbits go years after their Calling before realising who their One is, so having a heart that's something other than a plant would probably lead to nothing at all."

The dwarrows were quiet then, but it was Kíli, ever curious, ever stubborn, ever unable to keep his mouth closed who asked, "What does your heart mean?"

Bilbo sighed slowly, and suddenly he felt all the weariness of his fifty years. He took his button from his pocket, brushing his fingers over the ring and briefly wishing to disappear before he held the button out in front of him, twisting it in his palm as he remembered doing back when he had first made it. It had been joined by four others then, and Bilbo missed them with an bone-deep ache. "I don't know. I forged them when I came of age, and I haven't known what they meant since."

"_You_ forged them?" Kíli's eyes were wide. "You never told us you were a smith!"

"That's because I'm not," Bilbo scoffed. "I was Called to forge them, and I did, and that was that. I thought for a while that perhaps they meant that the local blacksmith was, well." Bilbo trailed off, but shot the young dwarf a wry smile. "He was not, and that much was proven when he went and married Elsie Cotton six months later."

The dwarrows watched Bilbo somberly, and Bilbo regretted the dark turn that their meal had taken, shoving his button back into his pocket and quickly standing from the table to leave. He glanced back at them as he reached the doorway, surprised to meet Thorin's gaze, his eyes soft and downturned, and Bilbo let himself remember that Thorin had once been a wandering blacksmith before he shuttered that thought and disappeared back into the garden to be alone once more.

❦

Hobbits were not burglars. Of that much Bilbo was certain, but he was equally certain that he was light-footed, and could walk in shadows undetected with the aid of his ring, and even he could admit that perhaps that was enough.

_I__t is a bit undeniable_, Bilbo thought hysterically as he ducked behind an enormous pillar in the centre of the Erebor treasury, his breaths coming quick and silent through his nose, _that not having a heartbeat while running from a dragon does help more than initially predicted_. 

❦

He found Thorin in the treasury. Or rather, it was not so much finding him as it was taking each dreadful step towards the doorway and pressing his hand—they were beginning to form callouses now, Bilbo noted—against its smooth stone, only hesitating for a moment before slowly descending the steps to where Thorin stood, pushing his way through piles of gold. "Thorin."

Thorin almost didn't turn around, and Bilbo made his way carefully across the slippery coins, wondering how, exactly, he had made it so deep into the treasury with a sleeping dragon. He picked his way across the room to where Thorin stood, carefully appraising a thin gold chain until Bilbo cleared his throat. "Thorin."

"Yes?" He turned slowly, as if Bilbo were a pesky distraction that would leave if only he waited long enough. But Bilbo wasn't leaving, and Thorin wasn't going to be rid of him. 

"I wanted to give you something."

"The Arkenstone?" The chain fell from his fingers as Thorin reached out, gripping at Bilbo's shoulders, his hands skimming to Bilbo's neck, his cheeks. "You have found it."

"N-no," Bilbo cursed the way he stuttered, but he could feel the stone in his back pocket, dragging him down further and further with each passing hour, until Bilbo was sure that he would be pulled under the earth itself. "Something else."

"There is nothing I desire more than the Arkenstone," Thorin replied flatly, though even as he said it, his thumb stroked slowly over Bilbo's cheekbone and Bilbo cursed his betrayer stomach for flipping with each slow movement. 

"Still, I want to give it to you," Bilbo repeated, and Thorin seemingly relented, dropping his hands and holding out his hand expectantly. Bilbo pressed his lips into a flat line as he reached into his pocket—his_ other_ pocket—to slowly draw out the small object within. "Thorin, I said long ago that I hoped your shield would protect you."

"Aye, you did," Thorin crossed his arms then, giving Bilbo a strange look, and oh, the things that Bilbo would have done to see a smile cross his face once more. 

"Well," Bilbo felt his fist clench around the small object before his lifted it, coaxing Thorin's hand away from his body and pressing the metal into his palm. "I don't think it can protect you from this."

"From what?" Thorin asked, holding up Bilbo's button to the light with a frown. "Is this...?"

"From yourself," Bilbo murmured, as Thorin looked back down at Bilbo curiously, his flat palm still holding the button, and Bilbo's heart with it. 

"I am afraid I don't understand," Thorin eyed him suspiciously. "Is this a hobbit trick?"

"One of the highest calibre," Bilbo gave him a tired smile, the sudden hollowness eating at his chest from within, and Bilbo absently pressed a hand to his left breast, rubbing at the spot with slow, gentle circles. "It is no trick, Thorin. And if it were, then I believe it may be played on me, not you."

Thorin narrowed his eyes once more, but relented in his suspicions, apparently remembering the mountains of gold that towered around him. Bilbo watched on as he turned away, beginning to wade his way through the treasure yet again, and he watched as Thorin dropped the button into a side pocket and immediately forgot about it, and he watched as his very heart disappeared into the halls of a goldstruck mountain king. 

He stopped watching after that.

❦

Later, as Bilbo dangled helplessly at the edge of the mountain with Thorin's hand heavy around his throat, he would look down and know that there was truly nothing left to protect him from the fall.

❦

"There's not much time," Balin urged, pressing at Bilbo's back heavily. Bilbo clutched at his own throbbing head, the bandages still fresh from Óin's hand as he stumbled his way towards the tent, hovering at the entrance and chancing a look back at Balin. 

"Are you sure he will want to see me?" Bilbo asked, and he couldn't help the fear that crept into his voice. Balin grimaced.

"There's not enough time left to find out," the dwarf replied flatly, and Bilbo didn't feel anything then, couldn't _let_ himself feel the pain of losing his One before he was actually gone.

Because that was it, wasn't it? Thorin was his One. He had known it for longer than he had cared to admit, perhaps even longer than he had known Thorin himself, and Bilbo found himself thinking of dwarven forges and oak trees as he brushed aside the tent flap, his eyes immediately landing upon the pale, unmoving shape that lay still under a thin blanket. With a cry, Bilbo fell to his knees beside the cot, gripping Thorin's hand vice-like and trying desperately not to let his hands shake.

Except that wasn't his hands shaking, and Bilbo blinked wetly up through his tears as the hand in his own shifted, exploratory in its unsteady movements as it stretched forward, pressing ghostly touches to Bilbo's hands, his chin, his cheek. "Burglar?"

Bilbo pressed into the touch miserably, covering Thorin's hand with his own. "Thorin."

Thorin exhaled slowly, and Bilbo watched as pain spasmed across his body, hissing as he bent his head across the pillow to look at Bilbo, their faces level with each other as Bilbo kneeled. "You came back."

"I don't abandon my friends, Thorin Oakenshield," Bilbo smiled, his eyes watery as he spoke, and Thorin let out a ghost of a laugh, his fingers making a concerted effort to stroke across Bilbo's cheek. 

"Friends," Thorin breathed, and his hand tensed at Bilbo's jaw as he curled in on himself with a heavy, wracking cough. Bilbo pressed closer, tightening his hold on Thorin, his hand moving to cup Thorin's elbow as the dwarf twisted onto his side to face Bilbo more fully. There was no blood in his cough, and Bilbo took that as a good sign, but Thorin was looking back up at him again, his blue eyes deep with sorrow. "Are we friends, Bilbo Baggins?"

"I would have us be, after everything," Bilbo whispered, and he felt the soft press of Thorin's forehead against his own.

"Is that all you would have us be?" Thorin's voice was heavy, and Bilbo realised that he was shifting, his arm moving weakly to pull something from his pocket. Bilbo almost aided him, but Thorin shook his head mutely, gritting his teeth as he freed his hand from his pocket, opening his palm like a secret between their two bodies. 

It was the button. Of course it was, and yet Bilbo was shocked to see it, hesitantly covering Thorin's palm with his own and feeling the warmth that it gave off. It burned hot for such a tiny object, and Bilbo remembered the heat from the forges when he had made it, closing Thorin's hand around his heart and squeezing tightly. "Did it help?"

"Óin says that, given enough time, I am to make a full recovery." Bilbo let out a gust of breath that he hadn't known that he was holding in, the tension that had been keeping his body upright now melting into the mud that had slowly begun to stain his trousers. He pressed closer to Thorin, his forehead hot against Bilbo's own, and yet still not hotter than the small point that burned in Thorin's hand, alighting at his touch and only growing stronger the longer that Bilbo remained. "Bilbo."

Bilbo could only hum an acknowledgement at the sound of his name, listening intently to the sound of Thorin's steady breaths. Thorin, however, remained intent. "I hurt you, _ukrad_. You protected me and I could not do the same."

"Sssh, Thorin," Bilbo pressed a careful hand to Thorin's cheek, running his fingers slowly through his beard. "It's okay."

"I would do right by you, Bilbo Baggins," Thorin shifted then, struggling to sit up and Bilbo almost shoved him back in his haste, but remained content to press lightly at his back, supporting him and letting Thorin's body slump against him. With a great groan, Thorin pulled at his side, and Bilbo watched him draw out his shield, wrenching it from its place to hold it carefully in his hands and, with a slow twist, Thorin held it out to Bilbo, his eyes wide. "I would keep you from harm for the rest of my days, if I could."

He held the shield out further and Bilbo took it, feeling that same familiar warmth from when he had first laid hands on it wash over him like a tide. He held the shield close, wrapping one arm around it as he leaned forward, his nose brushing Thorin's as he spoke. "And I just might let you."

As their lips met, Bilbo reached up to press a careful hand to Thorin's chest, and he thought that he had never heard a sweeter sound than its steady rhythm. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thorin Oakenshield: King of Deathbed Proposals
> 
> Edit: I added a bit to the middle to explain heartplants more, so if you read this when it was first published, I've added to it!
> 
> Edit 2: I forgot to add Khuzdûl translation lmao, but ukrad means 'greatest heart', which I think is fitting in this scenario since Thorin is literally giving him his heart


End file.
